Such A Tease
by mryddinwilt
Summary: A series examining each of the main characters on the night of Sherlock's return. With lots of Fall and post-Fall memories plus the actual Sherlock reunion. Inspired by that frustratingly short teaser trailer. Lots of Sherlolly because their reunion is all I am interested in (oh and the mustache!). Finally updated!
1. Chapter 1: Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes was distracted. He was sitting in his darkened office staring at the same sentence in the book he had been trying to read for the past half-hour. All his attempts to concentrate seemed feeble. Stray thoughts kept hijacking his train of thought. That is one thing he always envied his brother, his ability to concentrate with laser like focus. Sherlock had many faults but none of them were of concentration. Even as a boy he would get lost in his mind, loosing track of time, seeming to forget his own body as he wandered through his thoughts. Leaving Mycroft to watch over him, keep him safe from people who would take advantage of his distracted state. When they were younger Mycroft would physically watch over his sensitive little brother. Reading or studying while Sherlock wandered. Of course Sherlock always needed lots of protecting, their mother called him a "sensitive boy", prone to angry fits or crying over the oddest things. Mycroft felt duty bound, as his older brother, to teach him to control his feelings and watch over him.

When they were separated by boarding school, Mycroft had to find new ways to protect him. Learning how to project power through informants and bodyguards. Initially Sherlock didn't really notice or if he did he didn't seem to mind. Eventually though he came to resent Mycroft's help, came to see it as meddling. Of course that didn't stop the elder Holmes, he just became more covert in his methods. It became almost a game between them; Mycroft spying, Sherlock trying to stop him. Indeed, he often wondered if his great abilities at his job weren't due to all the practice he had on Sherlock. He smiled at the thought. Sherlock would like to take credit for his successes.

But his successes were not the root of his distracted mind. No it was his failure and the anticipation of finally putting everything right that had him on edge. Mycroft had spent a lifetime protecting his brother from bullies, opportunists, pranksters, drug addiction, and women. But when Sherlock needed him the most he had failed. He had given James Moriarty everything he needed to tear down Sherlocks life. He hadn't understood, he hadn't seen or hadn't wanted to see.

Not that it's an excuse but since Dr. John Watson had entered Sherlock's life Mycroft had worried less and less. With John by his side Sherlock didn't seem to need as much protection. Dr. Watson stabilized him, normalized him and protected him. From the very beginning John instinctively understood Sherlock, looked out for him, and seemed to genuinely care. It was a rare combination and Mycroft felt at ease, only rarely worrying about his brother, able to focus on matters of state. He became complacent and Moriarty had preyed on that complacency. If Sherlock had been more ordinary, less brilliant, he really would be buried underneath six feet of earth.

The thought made him shudder. He could still remember the call from John.

"Yes" Mycroft had answered smoothly.

"Gone. He…St. Barts…I couldn't. Oh God. I couldn't." He sounded hysterical.

"John. What has happened?"

"They won't let me…not family. You need to get here."

"Where John? What is going on?" a cold dread had begun to settle in the pit of his stomach. "Where is Sherlock?"

But John was no longer there, he had hung up. Mycroft's heart began to pound. He had the call traced, discovered John was at St. Barts, and instructed his driver to take him there. They pulled up near the bus stop and Mycroft was stepped out to a small police circus. He briefly recognized DI Lestrade and a few others from his squad. But his eyes were transfixed by the large puddle of blood on the concrete. So much blood and no body. As he pushed towards the entrance he heard the words "suicide" and "freak" but he didn't stop to listen. He had to find John or Sherlock.

In his rush inside he almost knocked over Molly Hooper. She vaguely registered in his brain. She worked in the morgue, she worked with Sherlock.

"Mycroft." it wasn't a question she knew him, was possibly looking for him "Come with me."

She turned and walked away, only turning around once to make sure he was following. She led him down to the morgue and the dread began to build in his body. He tried to tell himself that they were only going to her office but the blood and Johns hysterics told him they were going to see a body. Perhaps Sherlock would be examining the body when they arrived.

Outside the double doors she stopped and turned to him. Mycroft took a good look at her face. She had been crying, a lot. She was very upset. This woman who associated with death everyday had been shaken to her core.

"I want to warn you that both of them are pretty gruesome sights. You don't have to identify Ji... the…the other if you don't want too but as his closest available relative you will need to ID Sh..Sherlock." Her words crashed in upon his head. He blinked unsure of what he just heard. "Sorry. Sorry. What? Sherlock?"

Molly's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh. I am so sorry. I thought. I mean didn't you talk to the police? Oh. I am so so stupid." tears leaked out of her eyes. She looked up at him and whatever she saw there made her wrap her arms around him. Pulling him into a tender hug. Any other day, such familiarity would never be permitted, he would have pulled away and made a caustic remark. But instead he wrapped his arms around her, took a deep breath and let out a sob. They stood there for a long while, long enough for Mycroft to recognize the hallway and to remember the words he had said to his brother in this very spot that fateful Christmas.

As Sherlock tried and failed to project an uncaring attitude about Ms. Adler's death.

Mycroft had said "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." As his own heart broke he felt the truth of these words.

Eventually the show of sentiment had gone on long enough. Mycroft came back to himself and settled his Iceman mask on his face. He wiped his eyes, pushed Molly Hooper away, with a quiet "Thank you Ms. Hooper." Then he strode into the morgue to face his brother one last time.

But it hadn't been the last time. Mycroft only mourned his brother for 24 hours, not even long enough to get properly drunk. His brother had appeared on a night, much like tonight, a smile on his face and an intricate plan to put in motion.

Impulsively he had hugged him, needing to feel his solid flesh to know he was actually alive.

"Yes. Yes." Sherlock said, clearly uncomfortable with the uncharacteristic show of affection. He had remarked on Mycrofts disheveled state, seemingly flattered at how much his brother cared for him. But also focusing in on other things.

"Mycroft, do you have a girlfriend I am unaware of?"

"What? Of course not, why would you think that?" Mycroft looked around the room and over his own body trying to understand what Sherlock had seen. A glance down at his shirt revealed mascara and tear stains from Molly Hooper. "Oh." He color slightly remembering his loss of control. He looked up at his brother's inquiring eyebrows. "That is from Molly." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Molly?" He seemed confused. So Mycroft attempted to explain

"Yes. Molly Hooper, she works at the morgue at St. Barts, she took me to identify, your-I mean- the body." Sherlock's eyes rolled

"I know who she is Mycroft." he sounded exasperated "What I don't know is how she did that to your shirt." He seemed offended. Normally Mycroft wouldn't answer his question, would come back with a witty phrase. But the last 24 hours had stripped him of his customary emotional defenses. He shrugged.

"She is quite upset about your death. She could see I was also upset. She hugged me, we cried, she left this mess." he gestured at his shirt. Sherlock didn't seem to believe him, seemed almost upset.

"I don't know why Molly would be crying."

"Well obviously, your death really upset her. She must, for some unknown reasons, miss you." Sherlock gave a half-smile before seeming to brush it all aside. "Yes well. That's not important. Lets get on to business."

And they did get on with business for the last year and a half they had systematically ripped apart Moriarty's network and rebuilt Sherlock's reputation. For Mycroft it was an atonement, a way to fix all he had ruined. It was hard work and it was all about to be over. Tomorrow Sherlock would officially join the land of the living and with all that hanging swimming through his head it was no wonder he couldn't get through a page of his book.

He heard a board squeak outside his door and he looked up in surprise. He wasn't expecting company.

The door swung open and revealed Sherlock. He was dressed once again in his long coat and scarf, his hair restored to its black curly shag. Over the last year he had taken on many disguises so it was almost shocking to see him looking like himself again.

"Mycroft" he said by way of greeting before sitting down.

"Sherlock." He responded with a bow of his head. "You are looking well."

"Quite" he said with a smile. They stared in silence for awhile, Mycroft waiting for Sherlock to explain his presence before realizing he wanted to be asked.

"To what do I owe this great honor? Last minute adjustments to the press announcement?"

"No. I have decided I want to visit a few people, in person, before the announcement tomorrow."

Mycroft nodded. The request was not completely unexpected.

"Of course. I thought you might. I have been keeping tabs on them as you asked." Mycroft picked up his phone to check the information for Sherlock. Realizing as he did so that this was the first time Sherlock had actually asked for it. He had spent the last year and half cut off from his friends, like he really had died. Maybe it was to protect them or protect himself from emotional entanglements, Mycroft wasn't really sure.

"Ah. Yes. Here it is. Mrs. Hudson is in her flat and will probably be there all night. Detective Inspector Lestrade is on shift at Scotland Yard, might be tricky getting to him. And John is preparing for his Thursday dinner date with Molly. I can text you the restaurant location if you like. It can be unpredictable what time they will finish." Sherlock was blinking rapidly, a sure sign he was confused.

"Sorry. John has a dinner date?"

"Yes. As I said, with Ms. Hooper. She works at St. Barts…" Sherlock cut him off.

"I know who Molly Hooper is! Just cause everyone else seems to forget about her doesn't mean I do!" he bit the words off carefully.

"Of course." Mycroft responded demurely unable to understand Sherlock's outburst. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his words, as if trying to decipher a hidden message. "John certainly hasn't forgotten her. They have spent a lot of time together" Mycroft added the information casually but something told him it was important to his brother.

"Well then. I will go." Sherlock stood as he spoke taking a few steps and resting his hand on the door knob before turning and asking, almost as an after thought. "Have you seen Ms. Hooper?"

Mycroft knew his brother well enough to understand that this question was not a casual one. Somehow Molly Hooper was important to Sherlock. After only a short pause he answered.

"I actually ran into her a few weeks back. Quite literally, she nearly knocked me over." Sherlock smiled at the description.

"And was she well?" he asked again

"Honestly, she looked a bit tired and worried. We didn't really talk, it felt… uncomfortable."

"Yes, well you have that effect on everyone." Sherlock said in parting.

Mycroft smiled as the door closed happy to have his annoying little brother back at last.


	2. Chapter 2: Mrs Hudson

Martha Hudson was cleaning up her quiet dinner. She cleared the table with less bustle then normal her mind wandering away from the task at hand. As she walked to the sink she paused and listened to the sounds around her. There was the vague noise of cars moving on Baker Street but otherwise it was silent. An almost oppressive silence accompanying the dark of the evening.

If you had told her two years ago that she would have a silent home she would have laughed at you. Back then there was never any silence, not for long. If Sherlock wasn't involved in a case he was playing his violin, shouting at the television, or shouting at his skull or John. If he was working a case there people tramping in and out of the flat. Occasionally police cars and teams of police arriving at all hours. It was a madhouse and she rightly objected. But on silent, lonely evenings she found that she really missed it.

She also missed Sherlock and John-her boys. Sherlock she would never see again. John had moved out over a year ago and rarely visited. They still occasionally visited Sherlock's grave or he would stop in for a cuppa. But he refused to live in 221B or even step a foot inside. The whole place seemed to give him too much pain. She thought John would have preferred that she left everything alone. Kept it preserved as a shrine to the great detective. That's probably why he paid the rent for a few months, even when he was no longer living there. She understood how he felt but she was a widow and needed the money. She couldn't afford to be sentimental about 221B. Especially when one of Sherlocks ghastly experiments had gone off and started to stink up the entire flat.

So with a heavy heart she had gone up the stairs, entered the now empty and dusty apartment and begun to sort through all that was left of the late, great, Sherlock Holmes. It took days and more than once she cried but she managed to get through it. Even managed to get John to come over and help once. But somehow seeing the apartment emptied was like losing Sherlock all over again and he refused to come back. In the end, she was left with overflowing boxes of his things and no idea what to do with it all. She asked John but he was no help at all. Then one day her phone rang.

"Hello" she answered.

"Oh. Hello. This is Molly, Molly Hooper. I work.. I mean I used to work with Sherlock." the voice on the other end seemed hesitant but determinedly cheerful.

"Yes dear. I remember you." Mrs. Hudson responded, puzzled by the call.

"Oh good! Well I am just calling because John, John Watson that is, told me that you might need a bit of help with Sherlock's things."

"Yes! I really do. I have boxes of equipment and books and things that I don't know what to do with. I thought about giving them to a school or something. There is just so much of it and I am not sure what is useful or what was only useful to Sherlock. That boy had funny tastes."

"Yes. Yes I know what you mean." Molly responded and Mrs. Hudson could almost hear the smile in her voice. Then she heard a muffled conversation in the background before Molly spoke back into the phone.

"Listen. Mrs. Hudson I just had something come up so I will have to ring off but if it's okay with you I will come by tomorrow morning and we can go through everything."

"Yes dear that will be lovely and please call me Martha."

"Ok. Good. See you tomorrow Mrs…I mean Martha." Martha hung up the phone slightly puzzled. Of course she remembered, Molly Hooper, how could she forget the spectacle on Christmas? Obviously the girl had some sort of crush on the handsome detective but surely his humiliating lack of interest had snuffed it out long ago? Why would she want to go through the things of a man who had rejected her, a man she probably barely knew? Of course if John had suggested her help there must be a reason. So Martha shook off her confusion and continued with her work for the day feeling a little bit lighter knowing that Sherlock's stuff would soon be sorted.

True to her word Molly arrived early the next day armed with coffee, work clothes, and a cheerful smile. The two women set to work with enthusiasm despite the morbidness of their task. As they went through everything they told stories of Sherlock; his annoying habits, his lighting mind, his occasional moments of kindness, and his sometimes hilarious actions. It felt like a proper celebration of his life. Martha was surprised at how much time Molly had spent with the man and her depth of knowledge of his character.

They separated his personal things from his medical and scientific devices. At one point Molly opened a box only to see Sherlock's mantlepiece skull sitting on top. She picked it up, only slightly surprised given some of the other things they had sorted through already. She looked at the skull carefully, her scientific mind clearly engaged as she examined it. When she moved to place the skull in the box of scientific instruments, Martha stopped her.

"Oh no dear. That is a personal item." At Molly's questioning look she elaborated. "Sherlock used to talk to it. Sometimes even yell at it. Before John showed up I think it was is only friend." she said the last bit with a smile. Molly looked thoughtful, turning to look into the skulls eye sockets and muttering.

"A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."

"What was that dear?" Martha asked.

"Oh nothing. Just Shakespeare" she lifted up the skull "You know Hamlet, in the graveyard with the skull of his friend 'alas poor Yorick'. It's all about death and..anyway it's a bit morbid" she smiled quickly trying to dispel the gloom that her contemplation of the skull had brought on. Martha smiled back understanding her shift in mood.

"I miss him too love." She patted her shoulder. Molly nodded and they got back to work.

That day, in the midst of going through all of Sherlock's things, swapping tears and laughter Martha understood why John had gotten Molly involved. Molly wasn't just a sweet, kind-hearted young woman there to help an old landlady clean up a flat. Molly was a woman who was deeply in love with Sherlock, no school girl crush at all. Molly understood and accepted all of Sherlock's strengths and weaknesses and loved him for them. Martha thought it tragic that Sherlock never knew the depths of love and devotion he had inspired. That the one time Molly had tried to show him her feelings he had taunted and humiliated her. She found it especially sad because Martha thought that Molly could have been the making of Sherlock.

Martha sighed as she plunged her hands into the dishwater, picking up a pan and scrubbing her thoughts turning from Molly and Sherlock and back to the silence in the house. Her tenant in 221B, a Mr. Bumbery, had unceremoniously vacated the apartment yesterday. He had given no explanation and seemed very rushed to get everything packed. Of course he had told her to keep the deposit and paid for the next month so she wouldn't be "put out". But it was frustrating to think that she would have to find a new tenant for the upstairs flat. She thinking about putting out an advertisement in the morning.

Suddenly she heard a squeak on the stairwell. She stopped washing her pan and listened carefully. Nothing. She strained her ears, almost positive that she heard breathing beyond the wall. But then an ambulance passed, its siren blaring and the spell was broken. Just an old house making noises in the dark.

She turned back to her pan and turned on the water to rinse it. When she turned the water off she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in 221B. Fear and indignation bubbled up as she firmly grasped her frying pan. She hoped it was Mr. Bumbery returned to use the flat one last time. But if it wasn't Mr. Bumbery whoever it was not welcome. She crept up the stairs her heavy weapon slipping slightly as her palms began to sweat. The door to B was slightly ajar and she moved soundlessly into the empty sitting room. Her ears pricked when she hear footfalls coming from the upstairs bedroom. She went to the doorframe and stood poised waiting for the intruder to walk through.

When the dark figure strode in she only hesitated for a moment before smashing her frying pan as near the tall assailants head as possible. As she did so she let out a scream which echoed around the empty room and covered the cry of shock and pain from the burglar.

She lifted her frying pan once again only to be stopped mid-swing by an angry and indignant.

"Mrs. Hudson!" She froze with shock and peered into the shadows at the man spralled on the ground beneath her.

"Sherlock?" she whispered not believing her own senses, sure the dark was playing tricks.

"Yes. Now will you kindly stop threatening me with that pan?" Mrs. Hudson felt herself lowering her pan and reaching for the light switch. With a flick the sitting room filled with light. The pan slipped from her hands as she laid eyes on her long "dead" tenant. She took in his bleeding and slightly swollen cheek and chin, fluttered her hands and immediately began fussing over him.

"Oh Sherlock. I am so sorry! Let me get some ice." she said helping him up and then stopping to look again at his face and confirm he was really there. She paused to hug him tightly and was happy to feel his strong arms hug her in return. She pulled away and slapped his shoulder.

"Really Sherlock. You could have killed me with fright! You are lucky I didn't have the gun John gave me!" Sherlock smiled down at her, obviously enjoying the scolding.

"Yes. That would have ended badly. Now can we get something for this" he gestured to his face.

"Oh yes. Come along. I will make you a nice cuppa and we can have a long chat. He squeezed her arms in a side hug and then followed her down the stairs.

Sherlock accepted the ice but refused the tea. "I have several people to see tonight." he explained.

He patiently listened to all of Mrs. Hudson's scoldings and answered all of her questions. She wasn't really concerned with how he was alive or what he had been doing for the last 18 months, she asked mostly about his plans and his friends.

"Does John know you are alive?"

"No. But he will after tonight."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "You put us all through quite a lot. Don't be surprised if he is angry." she warned.

Sherlock tilted his head "Surely his happiness in having me back will dissipate any anger fairly quickly."

"Oh. I wouldn't count on in it dear." Martha didn't elaborate but she was sure that John and Sherlock were not going to pick up where they left off. There would be fall out.

"Well." Sherlock paused. "Well none of it can be helped now. We can only move forward."

"Yes of course dear." she smiled and patted his arm.

"Speaking of, I see that 221B is empty. Would you perchance be in need of new tenants?" Mrs. Hudson's heart lifted a little and she smiled.

"Yes in fact I am. Of course the rent will be much higher than before. In order to offset the inconvenience of your work schedule."

Sherlock grinned. "Whatever the price I am willing to pay it. But we can work that all out tomorrow, I must go and see a few other people." As Sherlock stood to take his leave a sudden thought struck Martha.

"Sherlock. Are you going to see Molly Hooper?" She asked

He raised an eyebrow "Molly Hooper?"

"Yes. A lovely young women you used to work with she came to that Christmas party. " Martha didn't notice the way Sherlock clenched his jaw at her explanation.

"I know who Molly Hooper is." he intoned, his voice seeming to drop an octave. "I just don't know why you care if I am visiting her."

Suddenly Martha found the situation a bit awkward. To tell Sherlock of Molly's feelings felt like a violation of the girls privacy and besides Martha didn't know if the girl had moved on. So she started to ramble

"Oh well. After you…you well you know... left, She came and helped me go through your things. She was really quite helpful and, well she seemed quite fond of you, Sherlock. She certainly had the measure of you and still seemed to like you. Which we both know is rare. So I just thought that maybe you would be visiting her now that you are back." She finished quickly unable to gauge the effect of her words.

"Molly helped you clean out my things?" at Mrs. Hudson's nod he asked "Why?"

Mrs Hudson shrugged sure that she had exposed Molly but also unsure that it was a bad thing. "John asked her to help but she seemed very keen. I think, I think she just wanted to make sure your stuff was properly cared for. She is a sweet girl."

Sherlocks only response was a short "Yes." He stood there for a long moment, lost in a thought. That pause spoke volumes to Mrs. Hudson and she wondered if Molly and Sherlock might, in the end, make a go of it. Of course Sherlock would need a push in the right direction, to be hit over the head with a metaphorical frying pan.

When Sherlock came out of his thoughts he inclined his head and murmured

"Until tomorrow." and turned to leave. When he reached the door Mrs. Hudson called out.

"Oh Sherlock." He turned to her.

"When you do see Molly. Will you do me a favor? Will you kiss her? A good and proper kiss? She deserves it." His puzzled expression and clear discomfort made her laugh. "Trust me. You won't be disappointed." She gave him a knowing look but he just shook his head and stalked out the door. Which only made her laugh more. Maybe she should have kept her own counsel but now that Sherlock was "alive" again it was high time he started living.

With another chuckle Martha moved to finish her dishes. Enjoying the silence that, starting tomorrow, would be a limited commodity.

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So? Thoughts? Would love to hear any suggestions for the next chapter with Lestrade! Not entirely sure how that one will go...


	3. Chapter 3: Lestrade

**Author Note: So when I published my first two chapters I was really disappointed because I didn't get any reviews or positive feedback. Which, sadly, demotivated me and made me wonder if it was worth finishing. Then life got in the way and I almost let it die. But today I discovered that my email alerts is messed up and I had missed lots of lovely reviews! Thank you guys for saying such lovely things! It totally motivated me! Also a huge shout-out goes to SammyKatz for her PMs. This one is dedicated to you!**

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The glow of the lights inside New Scotland Yard seemed to push away the darkness. Greg Lestrade looked out into the black night and let out a sigh as he ran his hands over his closely cropped hair. His shift had ended an hour ago but he was waiting on a call from St. Barts. His latest case looked like a disgusting prank; medical students mailing cadaver ears to the landlord that evicted them, but he wanted to be sure before he left.

Since Sherlock's death Greg had spent most of his time at his desk or taking care of the crank calls that no one else would touch. His career becoming a joke as he looked into lost rabbits and alien invasions. He knew he was being punished. Punished for daring to consult with Sherlock. Punished for having the nerve to admit that he wasn't the smartest person in the room and seeking help in capturing murderers. The sheer pride and stupidity of his peers never failed to disgust him these days. They would rather let killers go free then have Sherlock make them feel stupid.

Of course Greg couldn't voice this opinion with Donovan or any of his fellow DI's. Because officially Sherlock was a fraud; a clever mastermind that led them all a merry dance. The higher ups clung to this "truth", despite the information that had been trickling in for months about Moriarty, Moran, and the fake Richard Brook. Despite the evidence pilling up no one would admit that Sherlock had been framed by Moriarty and that NSY had practically helped. Which resulted in Sherlock jumping to his death. Even after all this time Greg couldn't think of it without his blood pressure rising.

Checking his watch Greg decided he had time for a quick cigarette. Before Sherlock died, Greg had been riding a long smoke-free streak but he broke it after that day at St. Barts.

He was sitting at his desk when Sally had rushed up.

"Sir. I just heard. It's the frea…Sherlock Holmes. He's dead." she looked in shock.

"What? What happened? Who killed him?" Greg had jumped from his chair Anger exploding through his chest. He thought some over-zealous beat cop had taken the "manhunt" too far and shot Sherlock.

"I don't know. Units are at St. Barts now. The 999 call said it was a jumper."

"Wait. What? A jumper?" Greg tried to wrap his mind around the idea that Sherlock had jumped off a building. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock Holmes was many things but he was not a quitter. He was a man so full of life and passion Greg could never see him senselessly ending it all. Especially not in such a painful and predictable way. If Sherlock Holmes wanted to kill himself he would have come up with something much more clever.

"I don't believe it." Greg practically whispered.

"What sir?"

"Nothing." he said with a shake of the head before exclaiming "Come on. We are going down there."

Once at St. Barts Lestrade had cornered the woman in charge and gotten all the details. How witnesses said they had seen him jump. How he had cracked his skull and been unresponsive on the pavement but they brought him into the hospital anyway. How there was a body on the roof with a self-inflicted gun shot wound. It was all pretty straight forward and she insisted there was really no need for a DI to be there. As the report ended Lestrade saw a flustered Mycroft Holmes arrive. Watched as he stared at the pool of blood on the pavement. Greg couldn't be sure but he didn't think Mycroft knew he was seeing his brother's blood. Before Greg could move toward him, Mycroft had disappeared into the building. Greg attempted to follow him but was stopped by Donovan calling him.

He strode over, frustrated at being interrupted, but his frustration melted when he noticed the sandy blonde man sitting in the back of the ambulance a few meters behind her.

"He was here, he saw it all, sir. But he isn't very coherent. They are worried…" Lestrade cut her off with a raise of his hand before continuing on to Dr. Watson.

"John." He said as he approached. John looked at him but didn't seem to comprehend who he was and looked back down.

"John. It's Greg. Are you okay? Are you hurt?" He crouched down to look the good doctor in the eye. John blinked, shook his head, and then started to talk.

"I only left him for a half hour. I came back. Mrs. Hudson wasn't hurt you see? So I came back. Friends protect you. He called me and..and he said…he said." John trailed off his eyes darting wildly to see who was nearby. Greg wondered if the medics had given him the wrong pill because he seemed drugged. But Before Greg could say anything he started speaking again.

"He IS that clever Greg. He said he wasn't, he said it was all a lie. But he is clever, he is the most clever, ever. You know that! You have seen him solve cases with nothing but pocket lint as a clue. They couldn't all be fake. He couldn't make up every single one…" John shook his head again and Greg put a hand on his shoulder.

"I know mate. I know. He is bloody brilliant."

"Oh the blood, his blood." And with that he looked down at his hands and the blood smeared across them. Horror filled his eyes.

"He didn't have a pulse. Greg. I checked, He… he's dead." John whispered the last word as if he was afraid that by speaking it out loud it would suddenly become real. Greg felt his eyes sting but controlled his emotions. John needed a steady hand and Sherlock would want his blogger, his friend looked after. Greg stayed with him for the rest of the afternoon. Walking him through his witness statement and listening to his incoherent mutterings. Eventually delivering him to the waiting arms of Mrs. Hudson before heading home. On the way he stopped and bought a pack of cigarettes. Once back at his flat he took one out and smoked it in memory of the great detective. Lettting his own feelings of guilt wash over him. Playing "what if" and wondering if he could have stopped the horrible events that had taken his friend's life.

Now 18 months later Greg still occasionally indulged in a smoke and when he did he always thought fondly of his consulting detective. He opened his desk drawer to grab his lighter. In his search he pulled out one of his decoy ID's and chuckled. Remembering how he had a stack of them made the second time Sherlock had stolen his official ID. He used to place them in his pocket strategically so Sherlock would take the decoy and leave his real one alone. He wondered if Sherlock had ever caught on that he was stealing useless plastic and not his official Detective Inspector ID. He stuck the ID in his pocket for old times sake, before grabbing his jacket and heading down to the evidence garage for a smoke.

When he arrived half the lights were out but Greg didn't mind since he didn't really need light to smoke. Just as he reached for his packet he heard a noise. He turned towards it but was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. He pulled it out and checked the screen. It glowed "Molly" and Greg smiled warmly. The young St. Bart's doctor was probably calling about the case. A full half hour before Greg expected. She really was the best pathologist in the city; not to mention the most gentle hearted and loyal. Before Sherlock's death Greg hadn't really known Molly but had liked her in a general way. But in the last 18 months they had become friends.

It started when she helped him go through a mountain of cold cases. John had told her how the department was punishing Greg with paperwork. She had called him up out of the blue to offer her help. After that he would occasionally join her and John at dinner. Sometimes he went to St. Barts just to check on her or to spend his now abundant free time. She was always pleased to see him and Greg found he enjoyed making her happy. Since his ugly divorce he hadn't felt up to becoming romantically involved with anyone but he found he missed being with and taking care of a woman. Molly, and her friendship, helped to fill that void.

"Hey Molls." He answered still grinning.

"Hey. You sound happy."

"I am always happy to hear from you."

"Even when I am calling to tell you the test results are negative?" She sounded exhausted and Greg wondered how much sleep she was running on.

"You bring a smile to my face. Doesn't matter why you call love." He could hear her soft laugh in response.

"Now did you just call me for cheering up or do you actually have test results?"

" Well I have some preliminary findings."

"That sounds official." He joked

"I am an official doctor. Or did you forget?" She replied coyly.

"Ms. Hooper are you suggesting we play doctor…." He waited a beat before saying "again" pitched in his sexiest baritone. Molly practically screamed with laughter. Greg smiled even wider, glad he could make her happy. Especially since in the last few weeks Molly had seemed distant and depressed. Like something was bothering her but whenever he pressed she refused to talk about it. So he had decided to settle for making her laugh whenever he could.

As Molly tried to catch her breath, Greg thought he heard something. It sounded like someone indignantly puffing out a lungful of air. Immediately Greg's senses kicked up a notch. He checked his peripheral vision and suddenly realized how many dark spaces there were in the garage. He began to automatically run through possible threats.

"Greg? Are you still there?" Molly's voice snapped Greg back and he shook off his paranoia.

"Yeah. Molls. I am here. You want to give me your findings?"

"Sure. The ears are definitely from two different people. I am guessing a male and female based on size and piercings. Their removal was definitely not done by an expert. Removing the ear isn't that difficult if you know how to handle a scalpel."

"How do you know so much about removing ears?"

"Sherlock." she replied simply. Greg chuckled and didn't hear the corresponding chuckle from the darkness

"Sherlock made you give him ears?"

"Sherlock doesn't make me do anything." she replied a bit defensively. And Greg remembered that Sherlock could still be a touchy topic with Molly. He decided to change the subject

"So. Not a med student prank?"

"No. Absolutely not. The ears are not from a cadaver or a funeral home body. They were removed almost immediately after death."

"Death? Are you saying that somebody killed two people, cut off their ears, and mailed them to Ms. Cushing?"

"That seems like the most plausible scenario." Greg smiled. He couldn't help himself, he had a real case, he was getting back out there.

"Molly you just made my day!" She giggled

"Careful Greg! You are starting to sound like Sherlock."

"Me? Like that pompous arse?" He faked indignation, enjoying her laughter but also feeling a little flattered by the comparison.

"Well you both enjoy a good puzzle, and cigarettes. Plus you are both devastatingly handsome." Molly quipped.

"You thought that git was handsome? I mean I know I am but…" Greg stopped mid-sentence stopping his playful abuse of the dearly departed detective when he heard footsteps.

"Molls I gotta run." He clicked off without waiting for a reply, knowing she wouldn't be offended.

The footsteps continued toward him and Greg pulled out his weapon lifting it as he spun toward the sound.

Out of the darkness a voice spoke.

"Really Detective Inspector. If I was here to hurt you I wouldn't make my approach so obvious." Greg's mind whirled. His subconscious mind identified the deep bass voice with Sherlock but his conscious mind knew that to be impossible. He wrinkled his forehead trying to reconcile the two opposing ideas.

"Oh. Shut-up."

"I didn't say anything." Greg responded automatically the words familiar in his mouth like an old memorized poem.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." came the response. Just then Sherlock, dressed in his coat and scarf, and wearing a smirk emerged from the shadows.

Greg stopped breathing, actually forgot to breath as he stared at his no-longer-dead friend.

"I assume you are shocked to see me?" Sherlock asked in his most condescending voice, snapping Greg back to reality.

"Bloody hell. How? I mean. You were DEAD. I went to your funeral. I saw your…" Greg was about to say body but then realized that he had never actually seen the body. He had trusted John's ramblings and Molly's reports. He shook his head realizing that he had been tricked, that they all had been tricked.

"Bloody hell. Faked your own death." Greg's mind buzzed with the implications of this revelation. He needed a drink or a cigarette. Absently he pulled out his pack and offered one to Sherlock. The not-dead detective took it and the offered lighter. They both stood and smoked silently while Greg sorted through the implications of an alive Sherlock. He realized that he had more questions then Sherlock would ever be willing to answer. Some of them, Greg wasn't sure he wanted the answer too. He decided to focus on what would come next.

"You know, now that you are alive, Scotland Yard is going to want you arrested."

"After tomorrow you will find that they won't have a case against me." Greg raised his eyebrows in response. "There will be a press conference, I will be pardoned and the whole sordid story will finally be told properly." Greg nodded.

"Ok. Good. So why come to me?"

Sherlock blew a puff of smoke into the air before answering "I wanted to thank you. I understand that your association with me has not helped your career" Greg snorted at the understatement but Sherlock continued "I also know that you continued to believe in me even after everything that happened. And that you risked your career warning me about my imminent arrest."

"Fat lot of good it did. " Greg interrupted again causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

"I am trying to be nice!" He exclaimed, throwing down his cigarette.

"Well stop it. You're creeping me out." Greg smiled up at him. His shock suddenly replaced with happiness at having the consulting detective back. Sherlock smirked back, clearly relieved he didn't need to go through his rehearsed speech.

"Got a case. Looks like double homicide."

"I heard. Pompous arse eh?" Sherlock gave him a meaningful look. Greg chuckled.

"Ya well you are. Don't be too upset Molly said you are good looking." Greg paused. "That is Dr. Molly Hooper, the pathologist at St. Barts. You know who I mean?" He asked half-serious.

"Given that I have worked with her for several years it would be odd if I did not remember her." came the terse response.

"Easy. I just didn't know if you knew her first name. After all it took you almost 6 years to learn mine." Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

"In point of fact Molly said I was devastatingly handsome." the words came out clipped as if Sherlock had carefully drained them of all emotion before speaking.

"No accounting for taste." Greg said with a grin.

"Yes quite. But then Molly seems to like you very much." Sherlock was fishing for information but Greg didn't rise to the bait.

"I am not sure if you just insulted me or Molly."

"Both I imagine." Sherlock replied in a cold voice. Which reminded Greg that before he "died" Sherlock was prone to insulting Molly. Greg had witnessed the painful Christmas fiasco and John and filled in lots of other details. Even Molly had told him of several instances, including the first time Sherlock met "Jim" from IT. Greg's protective nature kicked into full gear when he realized that sweet, kind, Molly was going to have to deal with it all over again.

"You know Sherlock, I am very fond of Molly." Sherlock snorted but Greg pressed on. "And I don't want you hurting her." Greg held up a hand to stop Sherlock's protest. "I don't want you charming her so she will help you on cases or experiments. I don't want you guessing her weight or analyzing her make-up choices or forcing her to cancel her dates so she can assist you in the lab. When you are around her keep your brilliant deductions to yourself. In fact it might be best if you don't see her unless I am with you." Greg finished with a stern and meaningful look. Knowing his speech would piss Sherlock off but intending to stand firm no matter how much he raged. However nothing could prepare him for what came next.

Sherlock sighed and seemed to shrink a little as he replied "You have obviously formed quite an attachment to Molly. Based on your phone call and your seemingly intimate knowledge of my interactions with her she is also attached to you. I can accept that fact."

"Well good I.." Sherlock cut him off, his voice taking a sharp edge.

"However if you think that you can dictate the terms of my relationship with her you are more of an idiot than I ever imagined. I will see Molly whenever and however I please. I am aware that my ability to see through others and my willingness to voice my deductions makes people uncomfortable. But I will not change who I am just to please everyone else. And I do not believe Molly would want me to change." The last sentence he said softly as if he wasn't entirely sure it was the truth. Greg didn't immediately respond, his mind full of the idea that Molly Hooper might be more than just a convenient and pliable pathologist to Sherlock. As the silence stretched on Sherlock seemed equally lost in thought. Greg began to wonder what deductions the detective had made about him and Molly from their conversation. Realizing that the flirty tone of the call and Greg's protectiveness might have lead Sherlock to believe they were romantically involved. Greg wondered if he should correct the great detective or let him figure it out on his own. Before he could make up his mind Sherlock spoke.

"I need to go. I will be in touch about the case." He abruptly turned to leave but Greg called him bak.

"Look mate, Molly and I…" But Sherlock cut him off

"I don't have time to discuss sentiment." He responded curtly before once more turning on his heel and melting back into the shadows. A confused Detective Inspector staring after him shaking his head wondering if Sherlock Holmes was jealous. He chuckled at the thought then reached into his pocket for another cigarette. Only to discover that Sherlock had pick-pocketed his decoy ID.

Greg laughed as he realized he would need to get more of those made starting tomorrow.

* * *

**Hope that met expectations! Let me know in the reviews! I promise I will actually see them this time! Also the case with the ears is actually a Arthur Conan Doyle story titled "The Adventure of the Cardboard Box" and it features Lestrade, thought it was a nice nod to the books. The next chapter is mostly written but I am open to any thoughts!**


	4. Chapter 4: Molly

Molly could feel the weight of the day seeping into her bones, dull aches echoed in her arms and legs as her footsteps echoed down the empty hallway. She had seen too many bodies today, done too much paperwork, it all weighed on her mind and body. Even her playful conversation with Greg had only briefly lifted her spirits but hopefully her dinner with John would help. Molly was grateful for these friendships and marveled that eighteen months ago the only thing that connected her to the two men was Sherlock.

Of course eighteen months ago her life had been simple, she was just a regular pathologist, trying to recover from her school girl crush on the worlds only consulting detective. Eighteen months ago she hadn't been an accomplice to…to…what charge would the police level at her? Certainly "helping to fake a death in order to destroy a criminal mastermind" is not in the books. Of course forgery is, and making false statements is definitely in there. She had made a lot of false statements in the last year and a half.

Her first lies were the hardest because they were to Mycroft. When the elder Holmes arrived Molly was on her way to find John. Wanting to make sure the drug they gave him wasn't causing too much trouble. She would have checked on him sooner but she had been busy administering Sherlock's sedative. Even she thought he looked dead, his white skin paler than usual, blood smeared across his face. The sight of him and the knowledge that he had come very close to actually being dead caused tears to flow and Molly didn't try to stop them. She had been surprised and nervous to see Mycroft; assuming that the police had sent him in to identify the body. In all their planning Sherlock had never considered that Mycroft would come to St. Barts. But he came and the horror on his face, the way his body shook with sobs, the way he looked at his little brother on the shiny steel, his hand gently brushing a lock of hair from his cold forehead, all of it spoke of his pain and regret. Molly wanted to tell him that Sherlock wasn't dead but knew the secret must be kept even from his grieving brother. Molly suspected Sherlock had no idea how much Mycroft cared.

Then there was the other body in her morgue, the man she knew as "Jim". The man who had tried to kill Sherlock and his friends. Molly could still hear their rooftop conversation echoing in her ears from the mic Sherlock had concealed in his coat. She could still hear Sherlocks shocked exclamation and the gunshot, followed by panicked breathing. Molly had let out a cry wondering who had been shot and wishing she could call out but the device only allowed her to listen.

Then she heard his voice speaking to her. "Molly. It's time. I am going to the ledge. Be ready." Molly sent the required texts and ran through the plan for the millionth time certain everything was in place. She heard Sherlock groan. "It's John. Just pulled up in a cab." Then she heard Sherlock call his friend. John's arrival had been part of the plan. There was a member of the homeless network armed with the drug to help keep him from ruining everything. Sherlock and Molly both knew the danger of John's anger and intellect to their plan but neither of them had thought he would arrive just in time to see his best friend fall. Molly listened as Sherlock positioned John away from the street and told the lie that would save his friends life. She listened as he said goodbye and could hear the tears in his voice. Suddenly she realized that Sherlock, despite his bravado and meticulous planning, wasn't sure this plan would work. He really was willing to die for his friends. She heard him say "Goodbye John." and heard the phone clatter to the roof. Then she heard a soft "Molly. Thank You" and then there was nothing but air followed by a crunch. She ripped off the headset, tears in her eyes, unsure if she had just heard his last words.

And it was partially true, because although Sherlock survived, Molly had not heard him speak again.

The first week she didn't really notice. She was so busy making sure the paperwork was straight, that the replacement body was not missed and that the funeral arrangements went off properly that she didn't have time to think about Sherlock's silence. The plan hadn't involved her being there when he woke up and slipped away. Molly didn't mind because even as she plotted with Sherlock to make him dead to the world, she thought that he would never be dead to her. She assumed that no matter what happened that night would draw them closer; that their secret would bind them together. As the only person that knew he was alive she assumed Sherlock would use her as a link to his old life. That she would get cryptic text messages or late night visits. Maybe he would hide out at her apartment occasionally. After the first week of his "death" Molly waited to hear from him. She would catch herself triple checking her phone for messages or searching crowds for his curly hair or long black coat. She often had dreams of him showing up and confessing his love. Usually these dreams ended with kissing or fantastic sex, her subconscious fulfilling her all too conscious desires.

She didn't spend all her time pining for her partner in crime. She continued to work while making a conscious effort to help Sherlock's friends, trying to ease the guilt she felt in deceiving them. Seeing John was the hardest. Initially his pain was visceral, you could just feel him falling apart inside. Molly wanted to hug him and tell him that Sherlock wasn't gone but she couldn't, she had promised. At the funeral he had come up to her; grief surrounding him like a cloud.

"Thanks. Molly."

"Of course John" she responded hesitantly

"No really." He grabbed her shoulder and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Thanks for taking care of the body…and…and taking care of him. I am glad it was you."

Molly only nodded in response, not daring to trust her voice. "I know he was a pain in the arse, and he didn't always show it. But, well, I think he really cared for you Molly."

"Thanks John." she said, her voice trembling. Her thoughts racing back to that night in the lab, when she was confronted with a wild eyed Sherlock and a wild request. John responded by patting her arm and giving her an awkward side hug.

Molly had intended to keep tabs on John but without Sherlock and his cases to bring them together she couldn't think of a reason for them to see each other. However in the weeks and months that followed, John had sought her out. Dropping by the lab for lunch or ringing up for a drink. He needed to talk to someone who knew and missed Sherlock and so did Molly. Surprisingly, without Sherlocks giant personality absorbing all the attention, they found that they had a lot in common. Through John she was able to connect with the others. She learned about Mrs Hudson needing help with Sherlock's things which allowed Molly to save most of his stuff for his return. John also connected her with Greg and Molly was shocked to find in him the big brother she had always wanted. She grew to love all of them and tried to help them heal. Of course, it was hard lying to them, hard pretending that Sherlock was dead when Molly knew he was alive. Harder still to think of the day when Sherlock returned and all of them discovered her involvement and her lies. She hoped they would still be friends but she feared she would loose them all. Up until two weeks ago that fear had lived side by side with the growing fear that Sherlock really was dead.

As the months of silence dragged on, Molly worried that Sherlock's quest to clear his name had gotten him killed. Her dreams became dark. Sherlock would come to her only to die in her arms a thousand gruesome deaths. The problem with working in a morgue, you learn a lot of ways people can die. Her mind took all that knowledge and inflicted it on her dream Sherlock, night after night. Molly started sleeping less and less. She wished there was someone to talk to or ask about how he was doing. Her constant worry had eaten at her until 2 weeks ago when she ran into Mycroft.

She was coming back from a lunch date with a posh, London, banker, in a part of the city she rarely visited. She was looking at her mobile and didn't notice the man until she bumped into his arm, sending his phone spiraling to the pavement.

"Oh I am so so sorry" she sputtered apologetically as she dropped to the ground in search of his phone. She heard his huff of indignation followed by a mildly surprised

"Ms. Hooper?" Her hand on the phone, she glanced up. Confused at who would know her here, then she recognized the elder Holmes. The man she had last seen standing stiffly at Sherlock's grave; the same man she had seen fall apart over his brother.

"Oh. Um. Hi." Molly ducked her head, her eyes falling on the phone in her hands. The screen was still brightly lit and displaying a message. She read it in a flash, without really meaning to pry. The moment she did she wished she hadn't. She wished she could sit on the sidewalk and cry while she erased the words from her mind. Instead she straightened up, making sure to flip the phone upside down in her hand and finger the sleep button, so Mycroft would think she hadn't seen anything.

"Sorry." She said again as she handed the phone to him.

"Not a problem." He said smoothly taking the phone. Molly felt that more should be said but couldn't order her thoughts. Mycroft seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, as he stood silently in her path.

"Well. Bye." Molly said with out moving

"Goodbye Ms. Hooper." Mycroft gave a slight tip of his head and stepped aside.

Molly willed herself to walk and miraculously her legs responded. She walked a few steps before she gave in to the urge to glance back. There she saw Mycroft looking after her, a curious expression on his face. She quickly looked away and picked up her pace. Matching her steps to her pounding heart. The message flashed through her mind once again

"Need assistance. Usual place. -SH"

Emotions jumped wildly around her body. ALIVE! He was alive. He had not drowned in a river, been bludgeoned with a curling iron, or shot through the head. He was alive! But the joy of the discovery was short lived. As Molly realized that Sherlock had been alive this whole time but had never once contacted her, anger began to flood her system as she furiously walked into the St. Barts locker room.

"Of all the ungrateful…selfish" she muttered as she jammed her arms into her lab coat.

"Sorry. What?" Someone a few lockers down asked.

"Nothing. Not talking…oh never mind" Molly spun on her heel and left the locker room. Continuing the abuse in her head.

She stayed angry for the rest of the day. She thought of all the mental energy she had wasted, all the tears she had shed thinking of his death, not to mention the lying and body snatching. All of it just fed her rage. She wished she knew where this "usual place" was so she could go there and punch Sherlock in the face. Her anger continued to simmer for the next few days. Until, one night she awoke from a dream.

In her dream she was back in her lab on that fateful night. Sherlock was there repeating his speech. It was like reliving a memory. Except this time when Molly asked "What do you need?" and Sherlock responded with "You." There was a tense pause and then a slow laugh started to pour from Sherlock. He kept laughing and laughing until Molly grabbed his arm and asked

"What's wrong?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" Sherlock said mockingly between laughs.

"Tell me whats going on!" Molly begged.

Sherlock shook off her arm as he abruptly stopped laughing. He twisted his mouth into a sneer.

"Really Ms. Hooper must I explain everything to you?" He drawled in a biting, sarcastic, tone. "Very well." He took a step closer forcing Molly to tilt her head back as he began to talk at his lighting pace "I am a man in a desperate circumstance. My life is destroyed and I have decided to cheat Moriarty and death by faking my demise. In order to do this I need some assistance. But not just some trifling favor. No! I need someone who is willing to lie, willing to snatch a body, falsify documents, and then keep my secret for as long as I need. John is of course the obvious choice for such a task, even Lestrade might do in a pinch. BUT these are obvious choices, people that Moriarty and his network will expect me to turn to for help. I need someone insignificant. I need this person to not question my plan, someone easily manipulated. And who is more insignificant and easy to manipulate than you Molly? When have you ever refused me? I thought you just had a weak character until your Christmas present revealed your feelings. Feelings I do not, and cannot return. Feelings I am very willing to exploit when it suits my purposes. Earlier today you offered your help. You think I need saving. Don't you see Molly? I am playing into your fantasy." His hand comes to her face roughly. "I am saying everything you want to hear, because I need your help."

He closed the distance between their mouths and delivered a painful, crushing kiss. Before pushing her away. "I was even willing to kiss your disgustingly small mouth in order to seal the deal. Luckily you were more than willing without it."

Molly tries to pull away but her dream holds her fast as this cruel Sherlock begins, once again, to laugh.

She awoke with the laugh ringing in her ears. Her flat was grey, the pre-dawn light sucking away all the color. She knew that Sherlock had never actually said those cruel things. But her dream felt more real than her memory. And when she thought about it all logically she was shocked that it had never occurred to her before. She had assumed that Sherlock's dire circumstance had helped him finally voice his hidden feelings. Made him realize how much he valued Molly. But if he valued her, why had he not contacted her, why had he disappeared without a word? It was far more likely that Sherlock had objectively decided that Molly was his best chance for surviving. He had then come to the obvious conclusion that for such a monumental task he could not just compliment her hair and smile. No, he decided that to make sure she was fully committed he would need a bigger manipulation. He would need to make her feel trusted and valued and maybe even loved. It all made perfect sense! She hadn't seen it before because she wanted so badly to believe the lie. She didn't count and Sherlock, if she ever saw him again, would never be anything more than someone she worked with. Molly wrapped her arms around her pillow and began to sob. Feeling, for the first time, the complete and utter loss of Sherlock Holmes.

She had been living with that loss for just over a week. Taking on extra shifts in order to avoid going home, where her unoccupied mind would dwell on all her conflicting thoughts. There were times in that week that she would almost convince herself that she was wrong. She would remember the raw emotion in Sherlocks voice and say to herself "He wasn't lying! I do count!" Or she would think of how his eyes kept searching hers during that long night of preparation and think "there was something there." She would hear his voice telling her thank you just before he jumped and think "he trusted me!" But every time the evidence of Sherlocks character and the silence of the last eighteen months washed away her protests.

So as Molly Hooper entered the locker room that night, fuzzy with exhaustion, she had come to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes had used her up. She was pulled inside out and left alone to put it all back together. She had even begun to find a silver lining in the thought that she might never see him again, because then her friends would never know about her lies.

As she walked to her locker her phone buzzed and she pulled it out. It was a message from John, confirming their dinner plans, for the evening. Months ago, when John started to see more and more of Mary they had established a monthly Thursday dinner in the hopes of keeping their friendship from drifting away. Molly was excited to catch up with him, sure he would raise her spirits. She smiled as she tapped out her response. Shoving the phone into her lab coat and reaching for her locker door.

As she swung it open, the locker's mirror caught a reflection, causing Molly to look up. She jumped and gasped, her hand reflexively jerking the locker door shut on to her thumb.

"Owww!" She cried hopping from foot to foot and sticking her thumb in her mouth as tears began to fall down her cheeks.

"Molly! " Sherlock exclaimed crossing the small room in two strides Not knowing what to say and realizing how she must look with her thumb in her mouth, Molly pulled it out and examined the angry red gash. Watching the blood seep out and determined not to look up at the ghost that had just materialized in her locker room. A ghost that was standing much too close for comfort.

"You're bleeding" he remarks in a calm, "looks like rain" voice. As if everything were normal. Anger flared in Molly. Everything was not bloody normal!

"No shit Sherlock!" she spat back before putting her thumb back in her mouth to avoid dripping blood everywhere.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He just quirked up his eyebrow and smiled. Molly fought to regain her anger. She had forgotten how just looking at him affected her reasoning ability. The way his very presence seemed to destabilize her entire brain. She leaned against the lockers, pulling her thumb back out and searching her pockets for something to staunch the blood. She was almost glad she had hurt herself because it gave her something to focus on, something to help mask her nervousness. Sherlock's hand reached out with a handkerchief. Pressing the soft fabric onto her thumb, his fingers momentarily brushing against her palm and sending a current of electricity up her arm. As his hand pulled away Molly pressed the makeshift bandage and watched as the blood bloomed onto the white fabric.

"Thanks." she practically whispers as she continues to study her hand. Sherlock doesn't respond. The room is silent for almost a minute. Finally Molly looks up to find Sherlock's gaze fixed on her, seeming to stare into her soul. His eyes, the darkness of the room, the familiar smell of St. Barts, all remind her of the last time she saw him. She blinks, trying to banish the tears that have sprung to her eyes.

"You don't look well. Molly. You haven't been sleeping and you have lost weight recently. The make-up you are wearing fails to hide anything. Are you sure a date is a good idea?" Molly's mouth opens in shock and much to her surprise she starts to giggle. Sherlock's eyebrows knit together a look of concern crossing his face.

"I fail to see the humor in your poor physical and mental state." He seems genuinely perplexed. Which just sends a new wave of giggles rolling through Molly's body. The strange normalcy of his comment and all his assumptions seem ludicrous given the situation. Her laugh pitches higher and begins to take on an edge of hysteria. Worry colors Sherlock's face and he reaches out, to shake her by the shoulders. At his movement her laugh stops and her eyes flash. She steps away, hoping to avoid the electricity and confusion his touch would generate. Sherlock misunderstands her dark look.

"I am only sharing my observations Molly. No need to get angry." He protests.

"Eighteen months." She says

"What?" he asks

"It's been eighteen months Sherlock. Since… since that day." She stutters, wanting to confront him, ask him about that night, about his feelings, but not wanting to know the truth.

"I am perfectly capable of keeping track of time Molly." He replies sarcastically. She had forgotten that too, the way he could set her teeth on edge with his smug superiority. She thinks about responding back sarcastically or even letting some of her anger pour out. But the last two weeks have been exhausting and she suddenly realizes she doesn't want to fight him. She can't make him love her or make him admit his mistakes. She just wants him to go away. To slip back into his grave and become a ghost once more. A ghost that can't touch her or hurt her ever again. She takes a deep breath lets it out in a sigh and says:

"Ok. Well, I need to get changed for dinner. So…" She turns away from him, opens up her locker and starts taking off her lab coat. In the mirror she sees his face bounce through a series of expressions before settling into something grim.

"You are eating with John. Do you spend a lot of time with him?" He asks and Molly realizes how Sherlock must want information about his best friend. She replies but doesn't turn around.

"John is alright. He works A&E now and really likes it. He always has a great story after a shift. John is…" Molly trails off, her smile falling, as she sees Sherlock's reflection; he looks angry. She turns to face him, concern wrinkling her forehead.

"Don't be upset. He misses you. We…they all miss you. But you can't expect anyone to put their life on hold…"

"Molly." He says it like a warning, his pitch rising at the end, and she stops talking. "I did not ask for a report on John's depressingly boring life. And I am well aware that life has continued in my absence. I noticed several changes in both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade when we spoke. What I want to know is how much time you spend with John." He speaks rapidly and Molly is not sure she has heard correctly.

"Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?" She asks bewildered.

"Yes. Yes. I saw them tonight." Sherlock replies dismissively.

"You have seen Martha and Greg? You talked to them, before…before me?" the betrayal feels like a punch in the solar plexus. Despite all she had done for him she was still an after thought. "And John I suppose you saw him first?" she asks accusingly.

"No. I will meet him for dinner." He says like it should be an obvious conclusion.

"Instead of me? That is why you are here to get a bloody restaurant address!?"

"Nonsense I got the address from Mycroft earlier. I needed you…" he replies and Molly cuts him off.

"You pompous arse!" she spits out the words; sure the insult won't leave a mark but desperate to hurt him as badly as he has hurt her. "I shouldn't be surprised. I mean I should be flattered you haven't deleted me from your hard drive. Of course you only recalled my existence because YOU needed something. After everything, EVERYTHING, you have the nerve to…You haven't even said thank you!" she shakes her head in anger and disbelieve. Unable to form the words that will give voice to her emotions. Angry with how Sherlock always makes her feel and sound like an idiot. She slams her locker shut and turns to leave not wanting to spend another second with him.

Sherlock gives an exasperated "Bloody hell!" and blocks her path. His eyes have a wild, dark look she doesn't recognize. But before she can process another thought his body crashes into hers pinning her against the lockers while his mouth simultaneously claims hers. His lips crush down, mashing painfully into her teeth. She gasps from surprise and pain. This was not how she wanted to kiss Sherlock. This was something out of her nightmare and the thought gives her the strength to pull away.

She jerks her head to the side and Sherlock's lips briefly brush her cheek. He pulls back slightly but stays close enough for his rapid breath to blow hot on her ear and neck. He drops his hands to his side but doesn't step away. Molly squeezes her eyes shut and feels hot tears. She can't decide if they are from anger, or sadness, or happiness (although she would be ashamed to admit that last one). As a single tear escapes down her cheek she gasps as she feels Sherlock wipe it away with the rough pad of his thumb. The act is tender and totally different from the rough, demanding kiss. She hears a whispered.

"I am sorry."

Shocked, Molly opens her eyes to Sherlock's fixed gaze. His eyes so earnest, so vulnerable Molly feels like he is trying to tell her something. To communicate an important fact. She doesn't know how long they stand there before Sherlock speaks.

"Eighteen months ago I told you that you have always counted. That has not changed. That will not change." His voice is deep and raw. His breath tickling her skin, smelling slightly of tobacco. Molly feels he is being sincere but doesn't know how to respond. If she was braver she might close the tiny gap between their lips but instead she only says:

"Ok."

He smiles back but says nothing. Molly feels the need to speak and seizes on a random observation. "You smell like Greg. I mean…like his cigarettes." she blushes realizing the awkwardness of the comment after it escapes her mouth. Sherlock's response is immediate and surprising.

He blinks rapidly and takes several steps away. Molly immediately feels cold from the loss of his body heat and the end of whatever just happened between them.

"Yes. _Greg_ offered me one. It is interesting that you are able to identify his brand so readily. But I suppose you often smell the good Detective Inspector." his tone has an under current of innuendo and meanness. Molly isn't sure what he is implying but she feels her anger flooding back.

"What I do with Greg or John or Martha or anyone is really none of your business. And…and… some awful, painful kiss and a few nice words doesn't change what you have done or give you the right to insult me. I…" Molly's tirade is suddenly interrupted by her mobile ringing. She looks down to check it and misses the look of shock and vulnerability on Sherlock's face. She turns around to answer and doesn't see his look of frustration when she happily exclaims "John."

"Molly! Where are you? I thought you were on your way?" John sounds mildly worried.

"Sorry! I got caught up in… something here. " she hesitates on the lie.

"Nothing pressing I hope."

"No it was nothing. Well nothing important."

As she talks she doesn't see Sherlock carefully re-arrange his features into a blank mask and walk out of the room.

"I will be there in a bit." Molly hears the door swing shut and spins around seeing that she is once again alone.

"Ok. See you soon. Excited to talk." John replies casually.

"Hmm. Bye." Molly responds absently.

As John rings off. Molly stares at the empty room trying to make sense of the last fifteen minutes. Her mind spins and she struggles to focus on anything specific. She shakes her head and heads for the door. It isn't until she gets on the street that she realizes that Sherlock would be heading to the restaurant. That Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are about to be reunited and there was no place in that scene for Molly Hooper.

Worse, she realized that once that reunion happened a betrayed John would probably never want to speak to her again. Or maybe, just maybe, he will need someone to help explain everything. Someone who knows the whole story and isn't tall, dark-haired, and aggravating. She pulls out her phone and furiously starts texting.

_I wanted to tell you how glad I am that we are friends. You are an amazing man. Strong and caring and funny. I am proud to be your friend and Mary is so lucky to be your girlfriend. If you ever need anything ever I am here for you._

She grips her phone, willing John to respond quickly. A minute passes, before she lets out a sigh and starts walking. She hopes that John gets a few drinks in before Sherlock arrives because based on her experience he was going to need them. Absently her hand touches her slightly bruised lips and Molly thinks about the bizarre reunion she just had. His deductions, sarcasm, and nonchalance were all classic Sherlock. But his lighting fast changes in mood, his prying into her personal life, the awkward kiss and his reaffirming that she counted were all bizarre changes. It is all very confusing and frustrating. So she tries to think of something else.

She wonders how her life will change now that Sherlock is in the land of the living. She worries that her friends won't forgive her. She worries what legal consequences she will have to face. She worries about working with Sherlock again because she knows, despite everything, she is not over him. She worries that she would still do anything for him. She wonders what that willingness says about her character and self-esteem. She doesn't worry that she hurt Sherlock with her angry words. She isn't fool enough to believe that anything she says or does matters to Sherlock Holmes.

Alone with all these thoughts and worries Molly Hooper walks home through the dark, London, night.

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**You didn't really think Sherlock would get it right on the first try did you? Don't despair, he is seeing John next. Maybe the good Doctor can help him out? Molly definitely deserves a better thank you don't you think? All thoughts and reviews are welcome! =)**


	5. Chapter 5: John

**I'm back! Thanks again to all those who reviewed! I love hearing your thoughts. I know the Molly chapter was a bit rough but this one is lots of fun. Less flashbacks more of the actual reunion! Enjoy!**

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Doctor John Watson sat staring at his menu, his left hand absently stroking the short hairs of his mustache. Personally he couldn't wait until the week ended so he could shave the blasted thing off. He was happy to raise a bit of money for charity but he agreed with Molly; it wasn't his best look. Of course Mary had a much less diplomatic phrase, the thought of which made him grin. The wide, silly, grin of a man in love. A man who was planning to move in with his girlfriend.

Just then the waitress arrived her face neutrally pleasant. John guessed she was in the middle of her shift. Then he glanced over her and found his mind drawing conclusions from the state of her fingernails, the wear of her shoes, and the cat hair on her pant leg. The mental exercise was a hold over from his days with Sherlock. While he was nowhere near the savant Sherlock was, John was proud of his deductions. It was one of the many ways the consulting detective had changed his life.

"Do you want to wait to order?" the waitress asked. John checked his watch trying to figure out how long the trip from St. Barts would take and decided to go ahead and order.

"My friend will have the curry and I will take the roast with peas and potatoes." He said handing her the menu and smiling. As she walked away, John took a sip of water, barely noticing the tall man as he approached from behind.

"The roast sounds boring. Couldn't you be a bit more adventurous John?" The sound of Sherlock's voice caused John's stomach to lurch but he had no trouble looking at him with a twinkle in his eye.

"You are the adventurous one, which is why I got you the curry." John replied with a wicked smirk forming beneath his mustache.

He saw Sherlock's shock and confusion, something most people would miss. But the silence spoke volumes to someone acquainted with his personality. When Sherlock was working through a problem he talked rapidly and rushed around the room. When he was gathering information his eyes moved with a hungry speed, devouring every detail and only moving to observe better. When he had all the information but needed to sort through it or enter his mind palace; his eyes would close and his hands move quickly and comically in the air. But when the great detective was truly and throughly confused he stood absolutely still, the only initial movement his rapid blinking. That his how he stood now-a bewildered statue.

"Sit down Sherlock. It's rude to just stand there." Sherlock shook his head but obediently sat down.

John let out a short laugh but said nothing, preferring to let his friend think. The waitress returned to deliver drinks. She took one glance at Sherlock's white, bewildered, face and exclaimed

"Are you alright?" When Sherlock didn't respond she turned to John with a look of concern. "He looks like he's seen a ghost."

John burst into laughter at the irony of her statement and the absurdity of the situation. The poor waitress didn't know what to do. John could only shake his head and wipe tears from his eyes.

"It's okay. He's fine." The young women only nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

The second she was out of earshot Sherlock spoke.

"How?" he asked.

John smiled, he was really enjoying himself, and not just because he had the upper hand on Sherlock. He was really glad to see him whole and healthy and the lift in his spirits was making him cheeky.

"How? How am I doing? How is the curry? How far can a laden swallow fly? I need you to be a bit more specific mate." Sherlock relaxed a little a slight smile flashing across his face.

"How did you know I was joining you for dinner?" he asked.

"Wait. You don't want to know how I knew you were alive?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Obviously Mycroft, Molly, or both told you. Molly was probably swayed by sentiment and Mycroft in an effort to make the transition easier."

"Wrong." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at John's answer.

"On what point?"

"On all of them. Really Sherlock, it's insulting that you didn't think me capable of figuring it out on my own. I may not have your towering intellect but I am not stupid." John paused, taking another sip of water and surprised Sherlock didn't take the opportunity to deliver a sarcastic reply. John wondered how much the last 18 months of isolation and single-mindedness had changed the consulting detective. He wondered what changes Sherlock would observe in him.

"Since you think me incapable, let me take you through my deductions." John smiled before continuing, "At the beginning I was as taken in, my judgement clouded by…" John paused not wanting to revisit the emotions of those first few months, "…by sentiment. But when I started to analyze the situation objectively I realized there were several inconsistencies. The first and most frustrating was why you…you…attempted to fly. I knew you weren't a fake and so you had not jumped in depression or disgrace. Moriarty's body on the roof suggested another power struggle like that night at the pool. Given Moriarity's desire to destroy you it wasn't hard to deduce that your jump was forced, a theatric way to end to his little fairy tale. An ending that I think you realized outside the flat of that awful reporter." John looked at Sherlock for confirmation and received a curt nod. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead.

"From there it was obvious that Moriarty had threatened your friends, remember he wanted to "burn the heart out of you". And that his threat was severe enough to force you to jump" John shook his head at the adrenaline soaked memory of the night at the pool. Recalling the way Moriarty had used him as a weapon against Sherlock and wondering what the criminal mastermind had said to Sherlock on that rooftop.

"John. That only explains that you knew why I jumped."

"I am getting there. Unlike you, I can't talk without breathing and some pauses for thinking."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes in response.

"So I knew why you jumped but I didn't realize you were alive until a few months later. To be honest I probably never would have figured it out if I hadn't gotten so close to Molly." Sherlock gave an indignant snort. "Now don't be grumpy, she didn't mean to give the game away. I just observed more than she realized."

The frown remained on Sherlock's face as he asked "Such as?"

"A few things. When we talked about you Molly seemed sad and worried. At first I thought the worry was over me but then I got better and she stayed worried. Sometimes she would refer to you in the present tense and wouldn't seem to notice. Then, of course, she saved all your stuff from 221B. She was quite clever about it, helping Mrs. Hudson organize everything and then volunteering to drop it all off. Everyone knows she kept the skull but I stumbled upon the rest of it in her spare bedroom once when she was out. "

"Wait." Sherlock looked confused again. John didn't think he had ever seen the detective so out of step. "Molly kept ALL my things?"

"Yeah. I assumed you told her too." John replied.

"No. I didn't." came the low response.

"Well, she did. Probably figured you would want it all back. She thoughtful like that. Which was the another clue. Her level of dedication to her friends, her willingness to do anything for them. Plus as a pathologist she was uniquely qualified to help someone fake their death. Once I realized that you knew Moriarty's end game and had spent the night at St. Barts. It all fell into place."

"Hmm…" Sherlock nodded ."Yes. But how did you know I was coming tonight instead of Molly?"

John spoke in his best imitation of Sherlock's lighting fast speech pattern,

"She texted me. Told me how much she cared and told me she would be there if I needed anything. Even for Molly that is a little sentimental, so she must be worried about my reaction when I see you again. But she was about to meet me for dinner, surely she could have told me in person. Unless she expected I would see you before I saw her again. Thus you were meeting me for dinner." John grinned but Sherlock didn't seem to be listening.

"Sherlock, you are supposed to express amazement or something."

"Yes. Of course, well done."

"Thank You."

"But as you said, your _intimate_ knowledge of Molly was key to your deductions." Sherlock sounded annoyed, maybe even angry.

"Wait. Are you mad that I figured it out or angry you didn't get to make a grand theatric entrance?"

"Don't be absurd. It is far preferable that you have had time to think about the situation. I dare say I have been spared a bleeding face and lots of verbal abuse."

John laughed knowing Sherlock was right. He had been angry. Angry at being left behind. Angry at being lied to and having his heart gutted. But the anger had subsided and been slowly replaced with gratitude He understood Sherlock's and Molly's reasons even if he didn't agree with them. But even though he wasn't angry he could tell Sherlock was upset; even though he claimed to be okay with John figuring everything out. John thought about this in silence as the waitress arrived with their food. He took a few bites of roast while he thought and studied a sullen Sherlock.

Just then John received a text. He glanced down and smiled.

_"Thinking about you. Miss you. -M_" Normally such a text would make John feel suffocated but with Mary he found it endearing. John shot back an equally mushy response, shaking his head at his own lovesick words.

Sherlock watched with interest but said nothing until John put his phone in his pocket.

"I feel obliged to tell you John, that she is also involved with Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock says condescendingly "And although you may think you are special, you are not. She is very adept at making men feel important." John's forehead crinkles in confusion at Sherlocks words and the angry tone of his voice.

"How could you possibly know that? You haven't even met Mary." John fires back feeling anger starting to build.

"I have known her for 5 years. Longer than you and…Mary? Who is Mary?" it was Sherlock's turn to be confused.

"Mary, Mary Morstan. My girlfriend. The person I was just texting." John waves his phone for emphasis.

"Oh." If he wasn't so frustrated John would have laughed at the lost look on Sherlock's face.

"Who were _you_ talking about?" John asks the question but then finds he already knows the answer "Molly? You thought I was dating Molly Hooper?" John gives a bark of laughter and Sherlock's face morphs into a statue, the only movement the clenching of his jaw. "No wait. You think Greg is dating Molly? What on earth gave you that idea?"

"I overheard a very animated and flirty conversation between them and Molly recognizes the smell of his brand of cigarettes. Additionally Greg threatened me and he used specifics on what I was not allowed to do or say. Clearly they are intimate" Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth.

"Do you hear yourself? Sherlock, that does not add up to a romantic relationship. Knowing personal details about someone, joking with them, being protective of them, knowing how they smell, or spending time with them are all indicators of a close friendship. Which, by the way, is what I have with Molly, a close friendship."

"I understand the concept of friendship, John. But thank you for clarifying. I was obviously mistaken in my conclusions" Sherlock forced an uncaring expression and turned his attention to his curry. John let the silence grow as he thought over the implications of Sherlock's mistaken conclusions. Trying to understand what was going on in his funny old head.

He thought of everything he knew about Molly and Sherlock's relationship. Before Sherlock's "death" John would have categorized them as co-workers, like Anderson or Donovan but without the mutual hate. Of course there was obvious adoration from Molly but Sherlock seemed oblivious. When John realized Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death he understood there must be a deeper connection. Molly's motivation was a straightforward love and devotion to the brilliant detective, despite all his flaws. John understood this but Sherlock's reasons for trusting Molly had initially confused him. Surely it would have been better for Sherlock to rely on Mycroft and all his resources? So John had analyzed Sherlock's interactions with Molly and found some startling facts.

Sherlock always called her Molly. Usually he called people by their last names-even "the woman" was only Ms. Adler. He rarely bothered to even learn someones first name. To John's knowledge the exceptions were Mycroft, himself, and Molly. Also Sherlock respected Molly's intellect. While Sherlock regularly made observations about her appearance he never once called her an idiot, claimed her presence a nuisance, or put down her IQ. In fact, around Molly Sherlock was relatively polite. Finally, Sherlock had apologized to Molly, sincerely, and without prompting.

As John added these facts up in his head he recalled that Christmas party. At the time John thought his preoccupation with Ms. Adler had caused Sherlock's embarrassing antics. But thinking on it now he remembered that Sherlock had started his tirade with "I see you have a boyfriend Molly…" Was it possible Sherlock was acting out over jealousy? Before, John would have laughed at the very idea but Sherlock's actions tonight seemed to confirm the conclusion. All of this added up to Sherlock feeling something more than friendship for Molly Hooper. John wondered if Sherlock was even aware that he might be in love with Molly. John couldn't help chuckling at the thought of Sherlock's woeful ignorance of his own heart.

"What is so amusing?" the detective asked.

"You mate."

"Yes. Well I am happy to be so entertaining." Sherlock replied icily, causing John to laugh harder.

"You know, I missed this. I am glad you are back" John said with a smile. Sherlock softened

"I am glad to be back." he said.

"Now that you are back, what are you going to do?" John asked.

"Be a consulting detective, of course. Mycroft is arranging the exoneration and the press conference. I have already secured 221B from Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade seems willing to work with me again and Molly…well I am sure she will work with me." John noticed that Sherlock didn't sound sure but said:

"Sounds like everything will be business as usual then."

"Yes and of course I would be lost without my blogger." Sherlock gave a small smile.

"Ah. Yes, well. The thing is… a lot has changed since you left. I have a proper job now and a girlfriend and a non-crime solving life"

"Boring"

"Maybe it is boring. BUT I am happy. Besides I don't think Mary would want me dashing all over London being chased by assassins or the police."

"John you can't be serious. I have dismantled Moriarty's network. The work will be much safer now. Besides you miss it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world." As Sherlock spoke his face shone with a familiar burning, fervor. John had to admit he felt the magnetic pull of his former life very strongly but his current life was equally strong.

"I will talk with Mary about it." He relented and Sherlock flashed a grin.

"Excellent!"

Just then the waitress arrived with the check. She paused, unsure who to give it to, so she asked.

"Who will be paying for tonights date?"

John groaned. "No. We're not together. I mean we're not…Nevermind, here." and he handed her some cash.

Sherlock sniggered as she walked away and John shot him a murderous look that melted into a chuckle. It really was good having his friend back.

"You have a place to stay tonight?" John asked.

"Mycroft. It's all sorted."

"Good. Good."

They stood and walked out to the street in companionable silence. Then suddenly John made a decision and turned boldly to his friend.

"Sherlock. I am pretty sure that you are in love with Molly" Sherlock tried to interrupt his face turning red at the word "love" but John stopped him. "No. Just listen. ."

"John I really…"

"I know. I know. It's not your area, you are married to your work. You consider love a chemical defect of the losing side yada, yada. But you are wrong. Love protected you, it saved your life. You aren't married to your work, you are in an abusive relationship with your work. It takes, and takes from you and only gives fleeting excitement in return. And while you may not think sentiment is your area I know, from experience, that it is. You risked your life to save your friends. You are the most human, human being I have ever known. You have a chance, a real chance, with Molly. God knows why but she loves you. But she won't wait forever and someday she really will have a boyfriend and it will…it will break your heart. " John had started out loud and agitated but ended with a whisper. Sherlock's shoulders were slumped and he looked gutted.

"Thank you John. But I fear Molly Hooper doesn't want anything to do with me."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing! I waited for her in the locker room and she wasn't pleased to see me. And then…" John held up his hand.

"Stop. Did she know you were coming?"

"No. I haven't spoke to her since the day before I…left" John couldn't believe his ears

"All this time and she hasn't heard anything from you?" Sherlock nodded. "And you just appear out of nowhere? Did you tell her you missed her? Thank her? Compliment her in anyway?" Sherlock shook his head. John put his head in his hands.

"Jesus Sherlock! No wonder she was upset!"

"So you see why it would be useless to talk to her about my…my emotions."

"No, I bloody don't see!" John exclaimed. "One bad experience and you want to throw in the towel? I thought Sherlock Holmes had more courage than that." Sherlock bristled at the comment.

"I am just refusing to persue a futile endeavor." He protested.

"No Sherlock. You are scared. Love does that to a person. You need to talk to her, you need to tell her how you feel, and let her decide if she want to forgive you. It's the only way. Otherwise you will spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened."

Sherlock nodded and said "I will consider it."

John sighed. "I guess that's the best I am going to get. Good night Sherlock and good luck."

They had begun to walk away when John remembered something he had been meaning to do. "Oh Sherlock." He called as he walked back to him. Sherlock turned just in time to see John's fist rushing towards his face. John connected with his lip and felt a satisfying crunch. Sherlock's head whipped back, his hand flying to his now bleeding face.

"I owed you that one. I think we are even now." John said with a grin.

Sherlock smiled back and nodded acknowledging the repayment of the debt; knowing that he got off easy.

"You know John it looks like a rat died on your lip."

John smiled as Sherlock flipped up the collar of his Belstaff, turned, and disappeared into the dark night.

All seemed right with the world

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**So what did you think? Anyone catch the phrase from the BBC One trailer? What am I saying of course you did! I don't know what the Moff is planning but I really think that John will be reluctant to join back up with Sherlock and it just makes sense that John would figure out what really happened. He isn't an idiot and he would be very motivated. Hope you enjoyed. Got two chapters left!**


	6. Chapter 6: London

The night air was chilly but with the promise of spring lingering in the air. Sherlock Holmes paused at a crosswalk and shoved his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff. He looked up and took in his surroundings for the first time in an hour. Since leaving John he had walked aimlessly, letting his feet wander while he contemplated the many unexpected events of the night. Normally he would have taken a taxi and done his thinking in 221B but tonight the flat was a mournful, empty, place. Instead he had roamed the city letting its smells and sounds envelope him in an embrace. He had missed London, it's quirks and inconsistencies, it's homeless and murky criminal world, it's cabbies and it's vibrancy. In the last 18 months he had spent very little time in his city. When he was there it was for brief missions or meetings. No time for wanders or reflections and Sherlock had missed that.

He stared at the intersection and consulted his mental map. He was surprised to discover he was in Whitechapel near a sad little patch of green he quickly identified as Altab Ali Park. He decides to head towards the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft had arranged a room. A big step up from the moldy safe-houses he had become accustomed too. But with his resurrection imminent there is little reason for to use such secret places.

Sherlock looks up and spots the glittering gold leaves on the Whitechapel Gallery, he smirks remembering the missing painting he recovered for them. The grin fades when he comes across one of those awkward urban art pieces. This one was a one eyed creature that Sherlock vaguely associates with the London Olympics. He pauses considering the plaque trying to decide if he should store the location of the statue in his map. His concentration is broken by the flash of a camera. Sherlock turns, suddenly alert and worried he has been recognized.

A large group of tourists, cameras at the ready, were down the street. The photographer, an American, had broken away from the group to snap a picture of the Dickens themed statue

"The first site we are visiting is the one that began the Autumn of terror. Please keep up!" Sherlock followed the American back to the group and fell into step with them. Tour groups were always a fun exercise in deduction. While the guide talked Sherlock discovered nationalities, occupations, travel itineraries and a few more details. It seemed your standard Jack the Ripper tour albeit one with a very enthusiastic guide. He hadn't stopped talking since Sherlock and started walking with them, despite the fact that most of the group weren't listening. The older American couple, a high school teacher and a hair dresser most likely on their first trip abroad, next to Sherlock were carrying on their own conversation.

"I just love the atmosphere here, it feels like the Ripper could be just around the corner" the man said.

"i know everything is so old" she replied. Sherlock snorted and the couple looked at him; so he spoke.

"Surely you noticed the KFC and Burger King we just walked passed. Neither of them are very old or atmospheric." The couple seemed taken aback by the tall stranger and just then the guide stopped the group and spoke.

"Ladies and Gentlemen we will now take the passage to Gunthorpe Street the scene of the murder of Martha Tabram. I ask for silence so you can enjoy the sense of a bygone era." Then he turned down a short tunnel and the group followed.

Sherlock continued along the street letting the group disappear into the dark. He thought momentarily of the fame of The Ripper, how over a hundred years later people were still enthralled by his murders. He wondered if that was the kind of immortality Moriarty wanted. Everyone remembers the perpetrator of crimes. No one remembers who brought them to justice. Most people can name at least a handful of serial killers but few can name the people who caught them. Even he was now more famous for being a liar and a fraud than he ever was as a successful detective.

Around Fenchurch Sherlock decides to head north, choosing to leave the Thames and all it's memories of crime scenes for another day. He finds himself heading toward Lord Foster's modern, Gherkin. As he does the streets quiet, most of the posh businessmen long gone for the evening. Although scattered lights in many of the buildings indicate a few workaholics still lingering. Sherlock thinks what a dreary, boring, life to be always working, trapped in a building all day. He could never live that way.

But then wasn't he all about his work? Didn't he value the work above everything else in his life? At least he used to think he did before Moriarty had forced him to realize that there were some things, some people, he valued even more. The thought brought back his newly made memories of his friends. He had been pleasantly surprised by his reception from Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John. The reunions had been happy and mostly comfortable. All of them had gone better than he had hoped; except for Molly's.

Sherlock had spent a lot of time in the last eighteen months thinking about Molly. Puzzling over her perceptiveness and wondering at her bravery. He found that he missed her quiet presence and helpfulness when he conducted experiments. He missed her warm eyes and small smiles. He found himself wishing to spend more time with her when he came back. A plan that now seemed impossible.

Sherlock didn't want to analyze what had happened with the young pathologist. In fact he wanted to forget it, erase the event from existence. But he couldn't and Sherlock had a need to understand things. He could feel that need pushing him to examine everything and reach a conclusion.

As he walks Sherlock examines the meeting. Molly's surprise, her angry response when he noticed her bleeding, her refusal to look him in the face. Just that beginning had stumped Sherlock. When he had imagined seeing Molly again it always involved her throwing her arms around him in happiness. Something he had decided to tolerate and maybe reciprocate when it occurred. Instead Molly seemed unable to bear his presence and uninterested in his return from the dead. Then she had laughed hysterically at his concern for her well-being and been angry. It was the anger that most surprised him. It was her anger that had made him put up his defenses.

He had used sarcasm and rudeness to protect himself but also because he was frustrated. He had returned to find Molly on intimate terms with everyone, they all seemed to think he had forgotten her. That they knew her better and had a deeper connection than he did. Lestrade with his easy banter, protectiveness, and knowledge of Molly's thoughts and emotions. John with his regular dinner dates and hilarious A&E stories. Even Mrs. Hudson with her proclamation that Molly would enjoy a proper kiss. They all had pieces of Molly that he did not. Pieces that he wanted but didn't know how to get.

Sherlock knew that these sentiments were not logical. In fact he was aware that his mental state was a by-product of neurochemicals. A combination of dopamine, norepinephrine and phenylethylamine all wreaking havoc with his reasoning ability. But that knowledge didn't help him maintain control or make rational decisions in that locker room.

With a groan he remembered the disastrous kiss. How in exasperation he had flown at Molly, pressing his lips to hers. He told himself he wanted to stop her leaving, that he wanted to convince her that she was important. But the truth, if he would admit it, is that he needed to kiss her, needed to touch and be near her. A need Molly did not seem to share. She had pulled away, she had cried and Sherlock knew he had made a horrible mistake. That any foolish attraction on her part had disappeared in the eighteen months of his absence. That all she felt for him now was frustration. Despite the plummeting of his heart he managed to tell her that she would always be important. But then they returned to jealousy and anger. Sherlock thought Molly made her feelings very clear.

As Sherlock reviewed the events in the locker room his feet took him right past the Gherkin and around the new Bishopsgate Tower with it's modern signs crowning it "The Pinnacle". Sherlock added it's finished construction to his mental map and noted that he was only a block from the Shad Sanderson Bank. With a small smile he recalled the look on the secretaries face when he told her the worth of her jade hairpin. He recalled how the woman had been completely oblivious to her bosses feelings. Mistaking his smuggling side business as lack of commitment. He heard the conversation clearly in his head

"What happened? Why did you end it?" he had asked

"I thought he didn't appreciate me. Took me for granted." she had replied

The memory causes Sherlock's brain to fire rapidly. Piecing together everything he had been told that night, Molly's words and how his own actions might have appeared- all at lightening speed. He nearly leapt with excitement when he discovered the truth. Molly was angry at Sherlock for taking her for granted. Her warmer feelings weren't gone, they were only overpowered by her hurt and anger.

As Sherlock turned up Old Broad Street he felt a glimmer of hope. But he couldn't pinpoint what he was hoping for. He felt that a return to the status quo would be impossible, things had changed. He had heard Molly talk casually and happily to her friends and he wanted to know that side of her. He had touched her lips and face and felt a surge of dopamine; he wanted to explore those sensations. He wanted to tell her his thoughts; he wanted to tell her things he didn't tell anyone else. He felt a need for Molly he could only compare to his addiction for cases and drugs. John had called it love. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure the term was accurate.

Heading for Threadneedle Walk Sherlock is surprised by a giant wing sticking out of the sidewalk. He stops and stares at the sculpture glowing yellow from the lights beneath it. It is graceful and otherworldly as if an angel's wing had fallen from the sky and turned to stone. Sherlock places it on his mental map and continues walking.

The winged sculpture reminded him of his coat flapping behind him as he fell from St. Barts. The feeling of free fall as his disoriented mind desperately tried to understand what was happening. For a moment Sherlock is back experiencing it all simultaneously on that ledge, in the air, on the sidewalk, waking in the morgue. The memories flood his body and he struggles to control his physical reactions. His pace quickens and suddenly he is running through the night. He had often ran through the streets of London his feet slapping the pavement his coat lifting behind him but this was different. He ran to prove that he was alive, to feel his heart race and his breath hitch. He ran to release his mind from his own memories.

After awhile he slows into a steady pace and realizes where he is. He stops abruptly almost in front of the Guildhall. His route was taking him back to St. Barts. For a second he thinks about turning south. Instead he stands, taking deep gulps of the cold night air, and stares at the church in front of him. It looks closed but it's stain glass windows glow. He recalls that this is St. Lawerence Jewry, a church dedicated to a saint who was roasted on a gridiron for his faith. A grisly death but then sometimes it seemed a morbid death was a requirement for sainthood. Even St. Barts was named for a saint who was skinned alive. Sherlock found himself thinking of burning, skinning, and experiments. This made him think of Molly and how she would enjoy designing the experiments with him. Which added another thing he wanted to do with Molly Hooper to his list.

He sighed, realizing that no matter what his mind would be on Molly tonight. He wouldn't be able to do anything else until he did as John advised and talk to her. Sherlock felt a thrill of apprehension at the thought. No matter what John said emotions and sentiment were not his area. He had learned a long time ago that they made you vulnerable. He had spent his lifetime building his defenses. Occasionally he let himself care for people but he had never engaged in a conversation where he had to express those emotions. He felt he would rather be skinned or burned alive than reveal his feelings. John had called him a coward and maybe he was right.

Suddenly exhausted Sherlock hailed a passing cab. He wanted to go to the club and sleep away the day. But when the cabbie asked him

"Where too?"

Sherlock found himself giving him Molly's address.

* * *

**One of my favorite things about Sherlock Holmes is how London often plays a key role in the stories. I thought it fitting that Sherlock have a reunion with city. While I have been to London twice I have not actually been to any of the places I describe above. So all descriptions and directions are courtesy of Google maps and hopefully I didn't get anything horribly wrong! I know a lot of Sherlolly make Sherlock very aware of his treatment of Molly and apologetic for it but that just felt OOC to me. Sherlock is pretty clueless when it comes to emotion and appropriate social interaction and I wouldn't have him any other way So hopefully that didn't ruin it for you. Thanks for all your reviews and encouragement. Just one chapter left. =)**


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